I needed a damn job. Everything was going to hell, and fast. Out of money, and no prospects. Congress needed to extend unemployment benefits or I was toast. Chicago laws made it hard as hell to evict people; I didn't want to get into that fight, but my other option was the street. No health insurance, obviously. I had some bargain-basement policy with my last job, but there was no way I could afford to pay COBRA. So nothing. If I found a big tumor on my nutsack, I'd have no choice but to watch it grow, or maybe try to cut it off myself, which seemed problematic.

Fuck me.

One of the worst things about not having a job is the feeling that you're dumber than all of the people who are working. You walk around and see some of the dipshits on their way to or from work, and you think you must be one dumb motherfucker to not have a job when they do. Then you literally start cursing the day you were born, every math and science test you didn't study for enough, every damn stupid decision you ever made that got you to this point. You start thinking about jumping off a tall building: it'll put an end to everything, and on the way down, for just a few seconds, you'll feel like you're flying.

So to avoid seeing all of those pinheads who would just make me feel worse about myself, I quit going out, which wasn't that hard because I was pretty much a recluse anyway. And of course being a recluse and introvert don't help you get a job.

I hated extroverts. They were like white people; they didn't understand that someone might be different from them. You go to a conference or seminar and a fucking extrovert always makes you do an icebreaker. Write down two truths and one lie about yourself. Maybe I don't want to write down two truths, motherfucker, how about that? Maybe I don't want to be deinhibited. Maybe I want to kick your ass. How about you get on with imparting whatever information I paid for you to fucking impart to me?

At first I thought the Internet was an introvert revolution. You could travel the world and never leave your room. Make your name based on your skills and not where you bought your clothes or how you cut your hair. But the fucking extroverts were doing their best to ruin the Internet too. I was supposed to get on there and advertise everything about myself. Get on the fucking Facebook and tell everyone everything about me. The five albums that have made the most difference in my life. My five favorite foods. I'm supposed to join lots of groups and make videos of myself. What a bunch of shit.

But I tried. I updated my resume (a damn depressing enterprise) on all of those annoying extrovert networking sites that you're supposed to be on. Then I started applying. And I got some interviews. I knew some shit. I know how to not be a moron on paper, and I can do some decent design work. But I could tell from the moment I walked into those places that I was screwed. Oh. You're old. We didn't want someone old. We'd expect someone old to know more shit. Get back under whatever rock you crawled out from, old dude.

A lot of the design firms that sprang up in the original dot.com boom, back when I first came to Chicago, had long since vanished--the ultra-cool ones with all the brick and the venting painted vivid colors and the pool tables and the refrigerators full of imported beer and the fucking perfect chicks everywhere you turned. Long gone. Most places, the ones where I got interviews anyway, were looking pretty shabby, like the last couple of places I'd worked. But that just meant there that many fewer positions available, for a steady stream of college grads with skills that were leaving mine in the dust. Even if the economy wasn't in the shitter, I'd have had a hell of a time.

Back when the economy was still okay, I'd always figured I could get a job at a bookstore if I had to. There was a Borders right across from the Water Tower that always had hot chicks in it. But that was when I was less old and bald and out of shape. Now I'd be lucky to get a job making Meximelts or bagging groceries, and even if I did get a job at the hot chick bookstore, it wouldn't cover the rent for my crummy studio apartment or my other bills.

There was freelance. Working for yourself. But freelance was a nightmare. I'd done freelance before, years ago. One decent client. The guy was a saint. He actually paid more than I asked, believe it or not. Everyone else: assholes. They don't explain what it is they want. Or they don't pay. Or both. A lot of both. I don't see how the hell you can make it as a freelancer if you're not living in your mom's basement. At the very least, you have to hustle. You have to be an extrovert. Or have mad skills. I didn't have any of that.

I thought Chicago would be the promised land. Endless possibilities. But it turned out to just be a magnet for a bunch of assholes who were better than me. Now I was screwed.

I wasn't like some dude in Somalia with a distended stomach from starvation. It hadn't gotten that bad yet. But soon enough I was going to be lining up in the soup kitchen line, and even if there was some Joan Collins wanting to help me, Spock would make sure that Kirk and McCoy didn't save her from getting run over, or else there'd be Nazis in space and shit.

Plus I was starting to get weird. You hang out long enough by yourself all day, you start getting weird. Letting yourself go, even worse than before. That was another reason why I couldn't do freelance, and why I couldn't ever completely retreat into introvert hermit paradise. They put prisoners in isolation as punishment, after all.

When I lost the last job, I realized I had no friends. I had hung out with some people at various jobs, but once I moved on, I never saw those people again. I never talked to anybody in your apartment building or anything like that, and people were always moving on anyway. Jorge was the only person I ever talked to outside of work. Fucking Jorge, the death metal torturer, was the person I knew most in all of Chicago, and I never saw him anymore either, though I still heard him plenty.

With my parents gone, my last resort would be calling my sister, but I hadn't talked to her in a couple of years, and I wasn't even sure where she was anymore. I didn't know if I could bring myself to ask her for help. Jumping off a building seemed the better option.

And then my phone rang again.

I was in the middle of making an old favorite, canned spaghetti and meatballs covered with finely grated cheddar. Made it all the time in college. My ex-wife used to give me all kinds of shit about it, which just made me enjoy it even more.

"You're not supposed to put CHEDDAR on spaghetti and meatballs! What's WRONG with you?"

Eat shit and die, bitch. First of all, it's canned. Second, my dad used to put slices of cheddar on spaghetti. Third, I can do what I want. Fourth, fuck you.

Plus, I couldn't afford much else. The cheese was actually an indulgence. And the spag was actually store brand, not the superior Boyardee.

This time I checked the number before answering--Chicago, but I didn't remember it. I had just finished heating the spag in the microwave to the right temperature and was applying the big-ass pile of grated cheese; the optimum time to consume was immediately after preparation, when some of the cheese remained unmelted, resulting in an ideal texture. If you waited, the cheese turned to goo.

I answered.

"Mr. Zaley, how are you? We spoke a few days ago, regarding a position with our company, Protagon?"

"Oh. Yeah."

"After reviewing your answers to our questionnaire, we'd like you to come in for an interview."

"Really."

"Yes, that's correct."

I didn't say anything. Just listened, to see if she was laughing. Didn't sound like it. But the last unmelted gratings of bargain-basement cheddar had begun to merge with their brethren.

"Look, what's the fucking deal here?"

"Mr. Zaley--"

"This is bullshit. You know it and I know it."

"Mr. Zaley--"

"What about my answers would possibly indicate I was the right fit for a position?"

"Mr. Zaley. Do you not think it possible that we might be looking for creativity of response?"

I had to hand it to her. She maintained the same neutral, friendly tone. And no, I had not considered "creativity of response" as a criterion. But there was still something too weird about it all. Reality TV show was still a good working theory.

"I guess I think it possible," I said. "But how did you come up with me in the first place?"

"We'd very much like for you to come in for an interview, and we can explain more then," she said. "Can I schedule you for an hour at the beginning of next week?"

I could have hung up, maybe ended it there. But even a crazy option was better than no option at all. I told her okay. Beginning of next week. Sure.

The cheese was all goo. But it'd be worth it, I told myself, if this really turned into something.

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December 28, 2009

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